Disappearing Act
Frank's ominous presence filled the door frame of the bar's front entrance, his silhouette casting a dark shadow right up to the bar. A staunch man, gray hair, green eyes and a jolly physique polished beer glasses, sorting them by brewer on a felt cloth on the counter.
"An' wha' can I get fer ya?" he asked in a gentle Irish accent, quite different from the harsh, acrid accent of Gallows', proving that class had as much to do with accents in England and Ireland as it did in New York and Rhode Island. "I's cannay sell ya a pint onna count o' it not bein' eleven yet, lad, but if'n ya'd like a coffee, I got tha best in tha block."
"No thank you, I'm just here for some information." Frank walked up to the bartender, who seemed like a good man, at least when compared to Kevin, the bartender that Soap would get harassed by on a constant basis.
"I'd beh 'appy ta oblige ya," the bartender leaned down, his elbows resting on the bar top. "But ya see, there are these lads lookin' fer ya."
Frank heard the sound of foot steps and semi-automatic weapons being levelled and aimed towards him. From the shadows of the bar, the Westies, or at least the four men who claimed to be the Westies, came to the foreground.
"I'm obliged to thank you, Mr. Punisher, ya scared off our biggest competition." One of the men, the leader presumably, said. "Finn Cooley's run clear across the ocean thanks to you, an' now since we're gonna get rid o' you, all we'll have ta deal wit' is those fuckin' Negroes."
Frank's body was tense, his hands ready to reach inside his trench coat and pull out one of any number of weapons the leather garment concealed in its folds. As the first shot was fired, Frank vaulted over the bar, his legs taking out the bartender and knocking over the glasses that he had been so intently polishing. The crashing glass and the two male bodies hit the deck, covered by the bar.
"Please don't kill meh," the Irish bartender pleaded, a wet stain growing on the crotch of the man's pants.
Frank rolled his eyes and drew out one of his two Colts, darting up from behind the protection of the oak wood bar. He fired twice, hitting one of the four men in the chest and shoulder. He was down for the count. As the blood oozed from the Irish man's chest, Frank dropped back down under the protection of the bar and informed the bartender of a rear exit and that if he indeed wanted to live, soiled as he was, to run for it.
The sound of gun fire ceased when the Micks lost sight of their quarry. The leader signalled one of his two remaining lackeys to go forward. The blonde man advanced toward the bar, his semi-automatic rifle held in front of him like a shield of some sort. As he closed in, a small, green ball flew up from behind the bar. The grenade hit the ground and detonated. Shrapnel and fire shot in all directions, chairs and debris going with it. The Westies, left right in the middle of the explosion, were little more than a group of charred corpses now.
Frank had killed two birds with one stone, no pun intended. He had killed the Westies and found out where Finn Cooley was hiding. Unfortunately, he was hiding half way across the world, in Ireland. Frank wouldn't worry about going after him now; Ireland was far enough away that he wouldn't be a bother to Frank in New York city.